The House on the Hill

The guard checked the list. 'Ah, for the Hawthorne residence. Go ahead.'

The gate swung open with a hydraulic hum. The van rolled forward, tires crunching on gravel. Elena let out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding, her lungs aching from the sudden influx of oxygen. She was in.

"Thanks," she whispered to the driver.

"No problem," he said, chewing gum. "Just grab a vase and try not to trip. They're picky about the floors."

The driveway curved around a stand of ancient oaks, revealing the house in stages. It was even bigger than it looked from the road. Turrets, gables, leaded glass windows. It looked like something from a fairy tale, but not the Disney kind. The Grimms kind. The kind where children were eaten.

They parked at the service entrance. Elena grabbed a vase of white hydrangeas, the stems cold and wet against her chest. She followed the driver inside.

The kitchen was a cavern of copper and slate. It smelled of roasting meat and expensive wine. A chef was shouting orders at a sous-chef, neither of them paying attention to the floral delivery.

Elena set the vase on a counter and slipped through a swinging door while the driver was getting his manifest signed.

She was in the main hallway. The floors were polished marble, the walls hung with tapestries that probably cost more than her entire education.

She needed to find Seraphina. She needed to see the life she was paying for.

She moved silently, her cheap flats making no sound. She passed a formal living room, a library, a dining room set for twenty. The house was enormous, a labyrinth of wealth and privilege.

But it was quiet. Too quiet.

Where was the baby? Where was the laughter?

She climbed the main staircase, her hand trailing along the banister. The wood was smooth, worn by generations of hands. Hawthorne hands.

At the top of the stairs, she heard it.

Singing.

A woman's voice, low and melodic.

*Hush, little baby, don't say a word...*

Elena followed the sound. It led her down a long corridor, past a series of closed doors, to a room at the very end. The door was ajar.

She crept closer. She peered inside.

It was a nursery. But not just a nursery. It was a showroom. The crib was gold leaf. The mobile was crystal. The walls were painted with a mural of a magical forest.

And sitting in a rocking chair by the window was Seraphina.

She was wearing a silk gown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was rocking the baby, *Leo*, back and forth, singing to him.

But she wasn't looking at him.

She was looking at her phone.

She was scrolling, typing with one hand while the baby fussed in her arms.

"Shh," Seraphina hissed, not looking up. "Mama is working."

She tapped the screen, her expression one of intense concentration.

Elena watched, mesmerized by the disconnect. The perfect image, the imperfect reality. Seraphina didn't love that child. She was maintaining an asset.

Seraphina hit send, then tossed the phone onto the side table. She looked down at the baby, her face twisting in annoyance.

"Stop it," she whispered. "You're ruining the aesthetic."

She stood up and dumped the baby into the crib, none too gently. He started to wail.

"Nanny!" Seraphina shouted, walking to the door. "He's hungry again!"

Elena flattened herself against the wall as Seraphina swept past her, not noticing the woman in the coat hiding in the shadows.

Elena waited until Seraphina was gone. Then she stepped into the nursery.

The baby was crying, his face red and blotchy. Elena walked over to the crib.

He looked like Marcus. The same chin. The same dark eyes.

But he also looked like her.

Elena froze. She stared at the baby. The shape of his ears. The curve of his nose.

It wasn't Seraphina's nose. It was her grandmother's nose.

She reached out, her hand trembling. She touched the baby's cheek.

He stopped crying. He looked up at her, his eyes wide.

Blue eyes.

Seraphina had dark eyes. Marcus had dark eyes. The Hawthornes had dark eyes.

Elena had blue eyes.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her.

The embryos. The ones they had "harvested" two years ago. The ones that had "failed to implant."

They hadn't failed.

They had stolen them.

Seraphina hadn't carried this child. She was too "fragile." Too much inbreeding.

They had used a surrogate. A paid vessel. And they had used Elena's genetic material.

This wasn't Seraphina's son.

It was hers.

She looked around the room. It wasn't a nursery. It was a prison.

She looked out the window. Below, in the backyard, snow covered a sprawling lawn.

And in the center of the lawn, half-buried in a drift, was a swing set.

It wasn't a rehab. It was a mansion. And there was a child's swing set in the yard.